Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 678 The Feelings of an Ordinary Person
The numerous victories in the battles generated a powerful response throughout the Ottoman Empire, as it had been a long time since the last victory against Russia.

Young Ibrahim stared at the crumpled newspaper in his hands, his fingertips turning slightly white from the pressure. He was a native of Constantinople, an ordinary young man who had grown up in traditional neighborhoods and attended an old-style religious school.

Once upon a time, he, like many young people around him, felt despair about the empire's decay and was filled with confusion about the future. He remembered his father talking about the heavy burden of taxes, his neighbors complaining about the corruption of officials, and in the religious school, the old teachers silently sighing for the empire's declining morality and power while lecturing on scriptures.

When Nasser al-Din, from Iran, became their Sultan, his inner resistance and confusion reached their peak. In teahouses and in the whispers among friends, he had heard or participated more than once in those resentful complaints: "How can an Iranian understand the glory of our Rome and Ottomans? He only covets our straits and land." That mixture of national pride and fear of unknown change hung like a dark cloud over the hearts of many young people like him.

However, war, like a cruel yet clear mirror, revealed everything.

At first came suffocatingly bad news: the two great powers, France and Russia, were joining forces to strangle him, while smaller states like Greece and Serbia seized the opportunity to pounce and tear him apart. Panic, like the fog of the Black Sea, permeated the streets and alleys of Constantinople. Ibrahim, like many others, believed that the end was near, and that the hastily cobbled-together dual empire was about to crumble under the weight of pressure.

But the news that followed shattered his understanding one after another. A series of victories in the war against Russia taught him how crucial a wise ruler was to a nation. He brought the once-invincible Russian steamrollers to a standstill, leaving battlefields strewn with corpses.

He overheard soldiers returning from the front lines, weary yet with burning eyes, discussing in a teahouse the new rifles, the ample ammunition, and how the Sultan, who sat in Topkapi Palace day and night, cared for the well-being of every soldier on the front.

The peasants loved him because he distributed land, striking a blow against the greedy old landlords and tax farmers; the merchants supported him because he standardized the currency, built railways, and fought pirates, bringing a longer-term commercial prospect; and the pagans supported him because his seemingly unorthodox yet incredibly pragmatic New Millet policy and religious tolerance decrees gave them, for the first time, a sense of possibility of being included in the ranks of imperial citizens, rather than being perpetual second-class subjects.

"Have you heard? An entire Serbian division was wiped out, with only a few hundred escaping back!" A middle-aged man who looked like a businessman excitedly told his companion at the next tea table.

"And those Russians, they thought we were easy to bully, but they were herded like sheep by our cavalry on the steppe!"

“That Persian… no, our Sultan seems to be truly capable!”

The buzzing of conversations around him reached Ibrahim's ears. He noticed that when people talked about the Sultan, their tone was no longer filled with the fear or complaints of the past, but with an unprecedented mix of surprise, pride, and even a touch of fanaticism.

Ibrahim recalled the new recruitment point he had seen on the street a few days earlier. It was no longer the pitiful scene of forced conscription of the past, but rather a place crowded with excited young people, chanting slogans like "For the Empire!" and "For the Sultan!" as they eagerly signed up. At the time, he had found it somewhat unbelievable, but now, he seemed to understand.

He put down his newspaper and silently walked out of the café. The streets of Istanbul seemed different than usual. Although the war had brought rationing and tension, people's faces were less numb and more lively. Newsboys ran around waving extra editions, and pedestrians stopped to discuss the latest battle reports; everything seemed better. A young mullah was addressing a gathered crowd. Unlike before, he didn't just recite scriptures; instead, he connected defending the homeland with upholding faith, praising the bravery of the soldiers on the front lines and citing scriptures to argue that obeying and supporting a strong and just ruler was in accordance with religious doctrine.

“Brothers! Sisters!” The young mullah’s voice was full of passion. “God helps those who help themselves! We have seen that when we are united and when we fight bravely, God will grant us victory! Whether we are brothers from Persia, warriors from Rumelia, or sons of Anatolia, at this moment, we all have a common name: Defenders of the Empire!”

"God is great!" the crowd responded enthusiastically.

Ibrahim stood on the periphery of the crowd, feeling a surge of warmth coursing through his chest. His anxieties about ethnicity, faith, and identity seemed to find a temporary, powerful anchor. This nascent empire, proving itself on the battlefield with victories, needed him.

The next day, Ibrahim did not go to his usual lifeless little office. Instead, he went straight to the recruitment station in the north of the city.

The recruitment station was bustling with activity, filled with young men around his age. The officer in charge of registration looked up at him: "Name? Age? Occupation?"

“Ibrahim, twenty-two years old, ... clerk.” He paused, then added, “I am literate and can write reports.”

The officer raised an eyebrow and wrote on the roster: "Literate? Very good. The front lines urgently need educated soldiers who can serve as junior officers or communications soldiers. Why did you join the army?"

Ibrahim's mind flashed back to the newspaper descriptions of the fierce street fighting in Shenicha and the heroic figures of the Caucasian cavalry sweeping across the steppes. He took a deep breath and said resolutely, "I'm going to the Balkans! I'm going to drive those opportunistic Serbs back to their homeland!"

The officer gave him an approving look and handed him a form: "Fill this out. The Empire needs young men with guts like you! Remember, you're not fighting for some Pasha, you're fighting for your family, for the Empire!"

A few days later, Ibrahim cut his hair short, put on a brand-new Imperial Army uniform, shouldered his pack, and boarded a military train bound for Edirne amidst the mixed gazes of his family, filled with worry and pride. The train whistle blew long as it slowly pulled out of the station. He watched the silhouette of Istanbul recede into the distance outside the window, and the unfamiliar faces on the platform waving, their eyes filled with tears and anticipation. His confusion vanished, replaced by a heavy sense of responsibility and an unprecedentedly clear goal.

(End of this chapter)